


reveille

by seraphy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-06-21 07:46:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15552960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphy/pseuds/seraphy
Summary: A tired Jack Morrison spends his morning doting on a slumbering Gabriel Reyes.





	reveille

**Author's Note:**

> so... i haven't written fanfiction in an Extremely long time, and i hope to one day advance to writing multi-chapter fics because i have a few ideas in mind. however, the last few years i've stumbled into an extremely rough writers' block--not the kind that hinders your creativity, but the kind that is so ... huge you can't write anything without hating it. writing this was extremely difficult, solely because of my tendency to become nauseated by anything i write, so this tiny , crappy oneshot was a little writing exercise to write without revision / without stopping myself that /should have/ taken around forty minutes but ended up taking two hours. so , forgive me if it's bad / choppy. i was able to write it and mustered the courage to post it regardless. judge but don't judge too hard
> 
> find me on tumblr @ carceia

A yellowing sky seeps into the room, humming dully like a slumbering beast come to life. It corners him. 

Mechanically:  _ Commander, mealtime in approximately one hour.  _

By now, that voice had become little more than a nuisance to him—an imitation of human life, too soothing, too patient to be anything other than robotic, scheduled (annoyingly so) to remind him of important times and dates. Not that oversleeping had ever been an issue for him. He was hardwired to rise with the sun, after all—some days he wakes up believing he’ll awaken to the smooth, stagnant countryside; the silent Midwest, stubbornly stalwart while the world changed around it. His head lifts and then falls back to the sturdy chest beneath, trying to chase the last few fraying ends of warmth... 

Again:  _ Commander, mealtime in approximately thirty-five minutes... _

The color has changed—orange encroaching on the linen, extinguishing whatever dream he may have pinned down; dawn a malicious reminder of what he has and cannot have all at once, and all he desires is one bit of rest, because the midnights are not enough. He blocks it out. Eating is mandatory—if he focuses too much, he can feel the emptiness gnawing away at his stomach, the latent onset of weakness and dizziness; it’s par for the course of being genetically enhanced. Something as simple as living has been relegated to an exercise, and beneath his skin, a billion nanites bustle, going insane without something to feed on—Angela said that skipping meals could turn  _ lethal _ , because within a few days he can starve himself, the same technology aiding him now devouring whatever it could find. 

He listens. It’s almost like tuning into a different frequency. Gabriel sleeps, unbothered, and if he focuses his senses enough, he can hear the calm gait of his heart without putting his ear to his chest, the brush of air in and out of his lungs, the white noise of their skin brushing against one another. He can see his imperfections—the tightness of the skin where scars grew, his eyelashes askew, the cracks in his lips. 

His fingers chase the shadows and the contours an illuminating sky creates—riots of reds, golds, oranges—worship in its purest form, almost as if he could memorialise him and their mornings through touch alone. Then, tracing a path that follows his jaw, his neck, and the depression of his collarbones, wondering how he can sleep so peacefully when the dawn awakens like a siren, blindingly bright and cornering what little midnight pleasures remained, until, ultimately, they were extinguished. Perhaps he has always been more in tune with the world because of where he lived—he could tell you the month by birdsong alone, measured the time in segments of the sun in the sky, knew when a storm was coming by smell alone (or was that because of his new senses?) Or, maybe, he has always been this sensitive, agonisingly aware of the passage of each second and the draining monotony of the weeks. He always felt like he was waiting for something with tight anticipation, only for it to never come. 

Persistently:  _ Commander, mealtime begins in approximately twenty minutes _ ...

Her voice is too close. He swats it away. Debates on waking Gabriel up or ignoring a meal again to the protest of a body threatening, at any time, mutiny. 

The looming loneliness of another day crushes him, his own body leaning into the curve of Gabriel’s, retracing the steps he’s taken so many times before with the same fingers, in the same light, with the same desperation. He feels raw and fabricated all at once. Tangles their limbs together even as his flesh almost rebukes the sensation—so many years and he still hasn’t adapted to his new sensitivity, his new body. He acquiesces to his pleasant shudder, revelling in his warmth, even as the sky beckons him like a burgeoning reveille ...

Gabriel awakens as he always has—languidly, almost feline, umber eyes alluring when he sees them with his new eyes, almost like he’s never seen them before. For a while, they just stare at one another in equal fondness, breaths mingling, hands caressing. He swallows his beauty, skin warming with the growing light, while he tucks himself into him, heart beating in tandem with Gabriel’s. He has him memorised—every dip, every line, every scar—and he knows his own eyes must be speaking for him, because they have never needed words. Gabriel knows him before he knows himself, first and foremost, and his skin warms when he cups his face, thumb flirting with his lip. He offers him a tiny smile, teeth peeking from behind his lips.  

Something playful is murmured about  _ morning breath _ , his own mouth pressing warmly to the pad of his thumb until it’s halfway into his mouth. Before he can try anything, Gabriel’s lips meet his own, drawing a lurid exhale from him, always fleeting and teasing. When he pulls away, he chases him, body alight with ten thousand sensations—mouth moving rhythmically against Gabriel’s, drawing the blankets up over their shoulders while his free hand languidly trails over his stomach, dewy with slumber. He gets the reaction he wanted—Gabriel subtly hitching his hips up, lips parting against his own and his hand settling on the soft dip of his own back. 

His grip on his own restraint is slipping, warmth tightening inside of him when he rolls on top of Gabriel, thighs spreading so willingly, fingers clumsy when they grab at his hair. He’s molten for him, his rhythm shaky when he grinds almost lazily, his chest to Gabriel’s, exchanging languid kisses that leave his lips bruised. 

It goes like that for a while—kissing him, tongue lethargic in its exploration, hips dragging and gyrating into Gabriel’s thigh, aligning their bodies just so. He thrusts into him gently, teasing himself, enjoying the sensation of the fabric and his thigh: the barest amount of friction. His hands resume their tender worship, slipping down his cheeks, his chest, his hips, then his inner thighs. His fingers tease the crease of fabric there, until they slide over his erection, stroking absently with his fingertips. Gabriel responds generously. The noise he makes—rough and groggy with morning—only urges him on, finding a steady rhythm of thrusts as his hand matches them, rubbing his bulge. In minutes Gabriel is whispering for more, reorienting himself so he can thrust right into him instead. He teases him, wanting to draw out these precious minutes they have; drawing his hips forward, slowly, letting the pleasure linger almost agonisingly. He must be saying his name, the syllables slippery and wet, mumbled into his neck—biting him until he’s blue and purple, hissing a rough  _ mine.  _

But he knows just how to drive Gabriel crazy, hand creeping up his thigh, teasing the inside with a stroke of his thumb. Wants him to beg, feeling Gabriel’s thrusts falter and roughen, bucking, while he uses his chest for purchase and sits, straddling his thighs, almost riding him. He looks down at Gabriel, a mural of pleasure and limned with dawn, eyes half-lidded and mouth parted, and holds him down when he arches. By now he feels the outline of his cock through his underwear, every inch of him desiring that closeness and that warmth between them both, his own straining and begging for it. His fingers skim along it, teasing him again, lingering and circling at the head, and it elicits Gabriel’s collapse into a muddle of incoherencies, ending with a desperate  _ Jack.  _

He can’t last long, inching the fabric down just to expose both of them, and the pleasure is obscene—leaning on his chest, he bucks his hips into his, dipping just enough to kiss him, murmuring encouragement, how  _ wet _ , how  _ warm _ it is, and he doesn’t let up. Gabriel’s hands grab his shoulders, pulling him so they’re flush while his own grabs both of their cocks at once, his movements jolting and uneven. Gabriel’s tongue traces up his throat, his breaths and rhythm quickening. He kisses him, wanting to taste his moans as Gabriel feeds him them, his climax welling up inside of him suddenly, spilling across his stomach with a sharp, needy whine. Gabriel follows soon after, gasping into his mouth while his cock jumps in his hand, connecting their skin in strands, thrusting into his orgasm. 

His skin burns against his own, limbs lethargically shifting underneath the blankets while he lay, gasping, trembling. This closeness that no one can encroach or steal from them, that even the day tries to thieve—his palms feeling the jump of his still-twitching muscles, his perfect hips, his broad shoulders. Gabriel urges him, half-heartedly, to get ready for the day, but he resists, cradled in this embrace. Away from the morass of the world, all their tiny voices and tiny bodies mingling, instead plunging into this temporary peace. He doesn’t want to get ready. 

For a moment, he is human, tucked into the countryside, tucked in obscurity, holding tightly to the love of his life. 

 

In some feverish distance, a mockery of reality:  _ Commander, the prime minister of England is requesting your presence... _


End file.
